THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


\ 


SKIPPED  STITCHES 


VERSES 


ANNA   J.   GRANNISS 


AUTHOR  OF  TH 


"OLD  RED  CRADLE' 


"THE  OLD  HOMESTEAD." 


CfjousantJ. 


KEENE,  N.  H. : 

DARLING    &    COMPANY,    BOOK    AND   JOB    PRINTERS. 


Copyright  1893, 
by  ANNA  J.  GRANNISS. 


All  rights  reserved. 


TO  H.  E.  P. 

If  I  could  find  infield,  or  wood,  some  flow' r, 
Some  nameless  flower,  sweeter  than  all  the  rest, 

Yielding  its  bloom  and  fragrance  etfry  hour, 
Then,  leaving  half  its  sweetness  unexprest 

In  its  deep  chalice,  closed  in  petals  white, 

Which,  at  the  lightest  breath  would  lean  apart, 

And  so  disclose  a  glowing  roseate  light, 

Some  lovely  thing  had  kindled  at  its  heart; 

If  I  could  find  such  fiow'r,  in  field,  or  wood, 
While  yet  its  petals  hung  with  early  dew, 

Fd  pluck  it  up,  and  name  it  Gratitude, 
And  make  all  haste  to  offer  it  to  you. 


623832 


TO  MY  MOTHER 

I   LOVINGLY  DEDICATE 

MY  HOME-SONGS 

AND  SHOULD  THIS  LITTLE  VENTURE  FIND  ITS  WAY  TO 
ANY  OF  MY 

FELLOW  TOILERS 

WILL  THEY  PLEASE  ACCEPT  A  FEW 

SKIPPED  STITCHES 

AS  SPECIALLY   DEDICATED  TO  THEM. 

A.  J.   G. 


INDEX. 

PRELUDE 9 

SET  TOIL  TO  A  TUNE 13 

SONGS  AND  BURRED  NEEDLES 14 

THE  MESSAGE 20 

APRIL 22 

A  CHILD  ASLEEP 22 

WHERE  THE  VIOLETS  GROW 24 

MY  GUEST 26 

HER  DOMINION 28 

To  MY  MOTHER 30 

THE  OLD  RED  CRADLE 31 

AN  OCCULTATION 32 

THE  MASSACRE  OF  THE  ROSES 34 

FR AGM  ENTS 35 

THE  AGED  ONES 36 

THE  LOST  JEWELS. 37 

THE  BOOK  WITH  THE  QUAINT  RED  LEATHER  COVERS 39 

Two  ROOMS 40 

THE  DEATH  OF  THE  LEAVES 41 

A  PART  IN  THE  PLAN 43 

WHAT  Is  THE  WONDER  ? 44 

RESTING  IN  THE  OLD  ARM  CHAIR 46 

THE  SAINTS'   MESSENGER 48 

A  CRADLE  SONG 49 

KEPT 50 

To  A   CACTUS  BLOOM 52 

AN  OLD  TREE'S  SOLILOQUY v_> 

To  MY  COMRADES 55 


PRELUDE. 

The  sun  comes  up,  and  the  day  is  crowned 
With  its  face  turned  toward  the  west; 

And  all  day  long  in  the  mill  is  found 
The  bustle  of  toil's  unrest. 

The  steam  sings  out  to  the  silent  steel, 

Till  pulley  and  shaft  reply; 
The  thread  unwinds  from  its  mimic  reel, 

And  slips  through  the  needle's  eye. 

€lick,  click,  and  over  the  long  white  track, 

The  stitches  begin  to  go 
Like,  tiny  steps  where  none  turn  back 

In  crossing  a  field  of  snow. 

Or  whether  the  softest  south  winds  blow. 
Or  the  north  grows  dark  with  fears, 

While  the  changing  seasons  come  and  go, 
I'm  stitching  away  the  years, 

And  the  great  world  never  asks,  or  cares. 
What  may  go  in  with  the  seams; 

Whether  bits  of  song,  or  broken  prayers, 
Or  only  a  toiler's  dreams. 


10 


But  something  born  of  the  toil  and  grind, 

Keeps  pleading  to  be  confessed; 
It  cries  from  its  cradle  in  the  mind. 

And  it  will  not  let  me  rest. 

And  so,  when  the  days  and  seams  are  long. 

When  the  pulleys  creak  and  moan. 
I  just  skip  a  stitch  and  sing  a  song, 

But  the  world  has  never  known 

That  it  soothes  the  ache  of  hurts  and  wrongs: 

That  brighter  the  needle  gleams, 
In  threading  life  through  the  simple  songs, 

That  go  tucked  away  in  seams. 

But  the  seams  grow  frayed,  and  old,  and  worn., 

And  the  little  songs  fall  out: 
They  know  they  are  ill-clad  waifs  forlorn 

That  nobody  cares-  about. 

And  they  bring  me  little  good  or  gain. 

In  their  ragged  bits  of  rhyme. 
Save,  as  they  sing  amid  toil  and  pain, 

Of  the  rest  in  "  aftertime  "  ; 

When  toil  is  done,  and  the  day  kneels  down 

With  its  worn  face  turned  away, 
While  cool  hands  take  off  its  fevered  crown. 

And  slip  on  its  robe  of  gray, 

Then,  up  and  down  thro'  the  busy  mill, 

Its  swift  wheels  begin  to  slow, 
And  the  loud  pulse  of  the  steam  grows  stilt 

In  the  engine-room  below. 


PRELUDE.  11 

And  the  old  bell,  waiting  in  its  tower 

For  pulley  and  shaft  to  cease, 
Rings  the  first  stroke  of  the  closing  hour, 

For  the  toiling  hands'  release. 

And  then,  from  the  great  deserted  rooms, 

The  grim  shadows  chase  the  light; 
The  dim  corners  quickly  fill  with  glooms, 

And  the  mill  4'  shuts  down  "  for  night. 

For  night — when  over  these  long  white  seams, 

The  darkness  at  last  shall  fall; 
The  night  will  find,  for  one  toiler's  dreams, 

Skipped  -Stitches,  and  that  is  all. 


Skipped  Stitches, 


SET  TOIL  TO  A  TUNE. 

Set  your  toil  to  a  tune,  aye,  a  happy  tune, 

And  sing  as  you  hoe,  my  laddie; 
Set  your  toil  to  a  tune,  as  sweet  as  the  June, 
And  sing  as  you  sew,  my  lassie, 

For  toil  is  pleasure, 

When  set  to  measure 
Of  mystical  rhythms  and  runes, 

And  common-place  toil 

On  fabric  or  soil, 
Can  be  set  to  a  thousand  tunes. 

Set  tunes  to  the  stitches,  and  sing  as  you  sew, 

Aye,  sing  while  the  lads,  fair  lassies, 
Set  tunes  to  the  furrows  and  sing  as  they  hoe,- 
Songs  lie  asleep  in  the  grasses! 

For  the  heart  that  sings, 

The  hours  fly  on  wings 
Of  mystical  rune  and  rhythm. 

And  carry  the  tunes 

Of  a  year  of  Junes, 
And  the  glad  heart  of  the  toiler  with  'em. 


SOXGS    AM)     IU    IIRKI)    NEEDLES". 


SONGS  AND  BURRED  NEEDLES. 

SOXG. 

We  count  it  a  pleasure  to  earn  our  bread  ! 
First  the  leaves  are  green,  then  yellow  and  red  — 
By  our  daily  toil  we  are  housed  and  fed, 
From  the  leaf  in  bud,  till  the  leaves  are  shed  ; 
The  thread  keeps  winding  off  from  its  reel, 
If  it's  smooth  and  strong  then  all  goes  '•  weel  r% 
But  a  knot  stops  close  to  the  needle's  eye, 
It's  a  little  thing,  but  it  can't  go  by  — 
A  dry  leaf  clicks  at  the  window-pane, 
We  clip  the  knot  and  thread  up  again  ; 
Yes,  we  like  the  taste  of  our  hard-earned  bread. 
Let  the  leaves  be  green,  or  yellow  and  red. 
Or  the  trees  quite  bare,  with  the  last  leaf  shed. 


LE  X<».    1. 
That  cricket's  singing  almost  frenzies  me; 

For  half  an  hour  it's  piped  the  self-same  strain; 
The  worst  it  used  to  do  was  make  me  sad, 

But  now,  it's  driving  needles  thro'  my  brain. 

You  know  the  cricket  rarely  sings  till  fall. 

By  that  I  know  the  summer's  almost  deadT 
And  yet,  I've  barely  had  two  buttercups  — 

Xo  wonder,  then,  its  singing  hurts  my  head- 


SONGS    AND    BURKED    XEEDLES.  15 

I  used  to  love  the  crickets  when  a  child, 

The  dear  brown  hoppers,  but  I  then  hopped,  too, 

And  had  my  share  of  summer  buttercups, 
And  ev'ry  other  wild  flower,  that  I  knew. 

I  find  the  same  things  have  a  difference 
When  heard,  or  felt,  at  widely  different  times  — 

I  used  to  call  just  jingles  poetry, 

But  I  know  better  now,  and  call  them  rhymes. 

I  used  to  think  that  heaven  would  tire  me  out 
With  endlessness  —  I  hope  I've  been  forgiven, 

For  now,  indeed,  I  find  I've  grown  so  tired, 
My  sweatest  hope  is  that  long  rest  in  heaven. 

Diverted  by  the  years,  all  former  things 
Find  newer  meanings  or  become  estranged; 

By  this  I  know  my  soul  has  not  stood  still, 
In  that  my  old  ideals  have  been  changed, 


We  are  the  toilers  who  earn  their  rest; 

Oh,  the  year  is  growing  old  ! 
The  sun  is  setting  far  southwest; 

Oh,  the  winds  are  growing  bold  ! 
The  winter  is  long  and  hard  at  best; 

Oh.  the  winter  is  hard  and  cold! 
And  what  shall  we  do  when  cold  weather  comes  ? 
And  what  shall  we  do  to  warm  our  poor  homes  ? 
If  the  thread  will  slip  thro'  the  needle's  eye, 
Let  cold  weather  come,  for  warmth  we  can  buy. 


If?.  SOXYrK    ANH    TU'KKFTn    XFIKDT.I •>. 

We'll  list  the  windows,  and  list  the  doors: 
We'll  lay  bright  nigs  on  the  kitchen  floors: 

Sing,  needle,  click  and  sing, 
The  coldest  winter  must  yield  to  spring! 

XEEDI.T:  Xo.  2. 
A  child  is  sobbing  somewhere  up  the  street, 

Its  sense  of  justice  wronged,  it  wails  and  cries; 
The  dear  Lord  only  knows  how  it  may  weep 

From  keener  sense  of  wrong,  before  it  dies. 

Poor  little  waif!  I'd  love  to  take  him  up 
And  comfort  him,  and  kiss  away  his  hurts; 

His  mother  has  to  earn  her  bread  and  his, 
By  making  other  children  bibs  and  skirts. 

He  has  to  get  along  as  best  he  can ; 

Brave  baby  soul,  he  never  asked  to  come  — 
He  may  be  one  of  heaven's  own  astray  — 

The  infant  Christ  was  born  without  a  home. 

I  wonder  if  such  childhood  makes  the  man 
More  truly  just,  more  pitifully  kind 

To  little  fellows  crying  on  the  street 

Because  they've  been  left  out,  or  left  behind. 

Or  if  instead,  he  turns  against  the  world, 
Ignoring  all  it  gives  of  later  good, 

And,  by  supreme  indifference,  thinks  to 
Revenge  his  own  neglected  babyhood. 


SONGS  AND  BURRED  NEEDLES.         17 

SONG. 

Oh,  we  are  of  those  who  toil  and  trust, 

Others  may,  too.  but  the  toiler  must; 

God  has  not  gone  to  some  distant  star, 

He's  in  the  mills  where  the  toilers  are. 
We  know  he  smiles  on  us  every  one, 
For  the  sake  of  Christ,  the  carpenter's  son; 
None  other  could  hear  in  the  noisy  mill, 
But  "God  hears  a  thought,"  and  heaven  grows  still 
While  he  measures  the  tears  and  counts  the  sighs 
Of  the  anxious  hearts,  lifting  up  their  cries  — 
Oh!  what  shall  we  do  when  our  loved  ones  fail  ? 
Oh!  what  shall  we  do  when  their  cheeks  grow  pale  ? 
And  how  shall  we  buy  them  fresh  fruits  and  flowers, 
If  we  'tend  to  their  wants  in  the  working  hours  ? 
But  how  can  we  leave  them  sick  and  alone  ? 

Oh,  how  we  toilers  do  love  our  own! 

All  we  can  do  is  to  toil  and  trust. 

Others  may,  too,  but  the  toiler  must ; 

And  God  remembers,  and  He  is  just. 

NEEDLE  No.  3. 
Great  men  have  lived  and  died,  before  to-day, 

Leaving  the  lore  their  minds  had  bred  and  nurst; 
But  babes  cannot  begin  where  they  left  off, 

They  have  to  lisp  and  learn  their  letters  first. 

One  man  invents  a  thing,  and  puts  it  by, 
And  dies  before  he  brings  it  to  the  test; 

Another  finds  it  good,  but  incomplete, 

Improves  upon't.  then  he.  too,  goes  to  rest. 


18  soNGS    AM)    BURRED    NP^KDLES. 

For  some  are  blind  in  this,  some  lame  in  that. 

It  keeps  the  world  from  getting  on  too  fast, 
And  wins  the  Present's  due  acknowledgment 

For  all  it  owes  the  venerable  Past. 

Indeed  it  ought  to  stimulate  the  man 

To  do  some  worthy  work  to  leave  behind 

With  this  gray-headed  banker  of  the  world. 
Where  ev'ry  man's  a  debtor  to  his  kind. 

'Tis  strange  to  think  of  time  so  far  remote 
There  was  no  reverend  Past  to  draw  upon: 

Hut  then  God  was,  He  is,  and  He  will  be 
God  of  the  great  world's  night-fall,  as  its  dawn. 

SONG. 

Oh!  the  wearisome  week!   How  slow  it  wears! 
The  days  are  so  long  and  so  full  of  cares, 
There  is  hardly  time  for  our  hurried  prayers, 
But  God  hears  those, 
And  only  He  knows 

Just  how  much  it  means  to  stop  and  pray, 

At  either  end  of  the  toiler's  day; 
It's  dark  in  the  morning;  it's  dark  at  night: 
How  do  our  homes  look  in  the  broad  day  light  ? 
Are  the  little  ones'  faces  sad  or  bright  ? 
Had  we  noticed  the  mother's  hair  was  white  ? 
The  needles  buzz  in  monotonous  hum ; — 
Oh!  the  first  bell-stroke,  will  it  ever  come  ? 

It's  getting  dark,  and  it's  hard  to  see, 

And  T  know  my  own  are  needing  me. 


SONGS  AND  BURRED  NEEDLES.  19 

The  great  wheels  throb,  and  the  pulleys  groan, 
Till  they  seem  to  sound  like  a  human  moan, 
And  the  heart  stands  still  with  a  sudden  fear, 
Oh,  how  is  it  hearts  beat,  year  after  year  ? 
Ah!   this  is  too  dreary  a  song  I  know, 
But  this  is  sometimes —  'tis  not  always  so. 

NEEDLE  No.  4. 
I  hear  the  turtle  singing  in  the  land! 

The  longest  woe  or  winter  wears  away; 
And  I  at  last  have  come  to  understand, 

That  life  is  better,  taken  day  by  day. 

If  we  recall  the  past,  and  wail  and  cry 
Over  lost  joys,  or  some  remembered  pain, 

The  present,  needs  must  weep  in  sympathy, 
And  so  lose  all  its  joy,  and  nothing  gain. 

While  if  the  future  we  would  penetrate, 
And  sit  and  wonder  what  the  end  will  be, 

It's  more  than  likely  we  shall  'rise  to  find 
Our  chances  of  success  in  jeopardy. 

So  life  is  better  taken  day  by  day, 

Moment  by  moment  rather,  from  God's  hand. 
The  wilderness  is  traversed  step  by  step, 

By  those  who  would  go  up  and  take  the  land. 


20  THE    MESSAGE. 


THE   MESSAGE. 

I  sent  it  far  out  on  the  midnight  air; 
A  great  voiceless  wish,  an  unspoken  prayer. 
I  know  what  I  said  when  I  sent  it  out, 
As  I  watched  it  hover  and  beat  about, 

And  then  cross  the  dark  mountain  toward  the  sea  — 
"  O,  sometime  my  wish  will  be  granted  me, 
And  sometime  my  prayer  will  be  answered  me, 

From  over  the  mountain  and  over  the  sea"  ! 

And  I  told  the  spirit  of  air  and  wind 
To  carry  my  message,  to  seek  and  find 
Its  answer,  then  over  the  mountain's  track 
Come  swiftly,  and  bear  me  the  answer  back. 

And  I  had  sweet  dreams,  sweet  as  dreams  could  be, 
Of  my  voiceless  prayer  being  answered  me, 
Of  my  one  wild  wish  being  granted  me. 

From  over  the  mountain  and  over  the  sea. 

I  opened  the  window  at  dead  of  night; 

All  the  ground  with  winter's  snow  lay  white  — 

Had  I  slept  in  the  lap  of  bygone  springs  ? 

Did  I  dream  of  the  beat  of  rapid  wings  ? 
O.  my  friend,  the  one  prayer  I  breathed  out  to  thee, 

Is  its  answer  winging  its  way  to  me  ? 

Is  it  bringing  pardon  and  peace  to  me 
From  over  the  mountain  and  over  the  sea  !J 


THK    MESSAGE.  21 

It  was  night,  and  the  ground  lay  white  with  snow, 
And  the  last  bird  had  vanished  months  ago. 
But  straight  from  the  way  where  the  day-star  springs. 
Through  the  still  night  air  came  the  rush  of  wings; 

And  a  bird,  unknown  on  this  side  of  the  sea, 
Fluttered  in  on  weary  white  wings  to  me. 
A  living  message  of  peace  for  me, 

From  over  the  mountain  and  over  the  sea. 

The  wish  I  sent  out  on  the  midnight  air, 
The  message  I  breathed  in  that  voiceless  prayer, 
Was  the  anguished  burden,   "Forgive!  Forgive! 
Oh,  my  wronged  friend,  if  thou  still  dost  live!  " 

Did  the  waves  of  the  night  air  carry  my  plea  ? 
Did  the  unknown  bird  bear  fast  and  free 
His  answer  of  pardon  and  peace  to  me, 

From  over  the  mountain  and  over  the  sea  ? 

The  feverish  dream  of  a  burdened  mind  ?  — 
An  invisible  waif  of  the  winter's  wind  ?  — 
Ah  —  the  open  sash  in  that  morning's  chill; 
And  the  strange  bird  dead  on  the  window-sill  — 

With  the  sweet,  sudden  sense  of  a  mind  set  free, 
Were  pledges  my  sin  was  forgiven  me. 
Strange  tokens  of  pardon  and  peace  to  me, 

From  over  the  mountain  and  over  the  sea. 

Came  news  of  death  from  an  Eastern  land, 
With  these  words,  writ  by  a  comrade's  hand: 
"  At  the  hour  of  midnight  the  message  came. 
•  I  forgive,'  he  said,  then  breathed  your  name. 


22  AI'Kir..       A    CHILI)    ASLKEP. 

And  died.'?  Oh,  is  the  soul  both  sides  of  the  sea 
What  was  the  white  wonder  that  came  to  me  ? 
Had  his  spirit  crossed  over  to  answer  me, 

Ere  its  last  long  flight  above  mount  and  sea  ? 


APRIL. 

April  laughed,  and  threw  a  kiss: 
Then  afraid  it  seemed  amiss, 
Quick  she  dropped  a  shining  tear, 
And  it  straightway  blossomed  here  ; 
Seeing  this,  she  then  threw  more. 
Crying  harder  than  before  — 
A  tear  for  ev'ry  kiss  she  threw; 
From  ev'ry  tear  a  blossom  grew, 
Till  she  laughing,  ran  away, 
And  left  her  flowers  all  to  May. 


A  CHILD  ASLEEP. 

A  sinner  sat  in  the  room  at  night 

Where  a  sweet  child  lay  asleep, 
And  strange  tears  came  to  the  wear-y  eyes 

That  had  been  unused  to  weep; 
The  mind  went  back  to  another  time, 

When  she  lay  her  childish  head, 
Aye,  in  just  such  happy  innocence 

On  her  own  low  trundle  bed. 


A    CHILI)    ASLEEP.  23 

She  seemed  to  feel  the  good-night  kiss, 

The  hand  upon  brow  and  hair, 
And  she  heard  her  mother's  gentle  tones, 

With  her  own  voice  lisping  prayer; 
Then  the  fountain  of  her  heart  o'ernowed, 

And  swept  through  those  evil  years, 
Tntil  all  their  bitter  wrong  and  sin 

Dissolved  in  repentant  tears. 

She  knelt  and  prayed  — glad  angelic  hands 

Once  anew  their  harp  strings  sweep; 
Babes  may  hear  such  music  in  their  dreams, 

For  the  child  smiled  in  her  sleep. 
Then  a  holy  Presence  filled  the  room, 

And  breathed  low  the  word  "  Forgiven  "  ! 
But  the  sinner  heard,  and  lifted  up 

Her  face  toward  God  and  heaven. 

The  redeeming  miracle  was  wrought! 

Then  the  still  night  wore  away, 
And  a  beautiful  new  soul  beheld 

In  the  east  the  breaking  day. 
What  the  song  and  sermon  had  not  done, 

For  the  sick  soul  sin-defiled, 
God's  spirit  did  in  the  silent  room, 

By  means  of  a  sleeping  child. 


L'4  WHERE    TILE    VIOLETS    GIJOW. 


WHERE  THE  VIOLETS  GROW. 

I  know  a  place  where  the  violets  grow, 

As  blue  as  the  summer  sky, 
And  I'll  tell  you  if  you  care  to  know, 

For  you  would  not  pass  them  by. 

You  remember  where  the  lilies  grow 
With  the  delicate  meadow-rue  ? 

It's  early  now,  but  before  you  know 
They  will  ring  their  bells  for  you : 

Well,  that  is  the  lot  you  have  to  cross, 
Then  follow  the  old  stone  wall; 

It's  nearly  covered  with  speckled  moss, 
There,  under  the  button-ball. 

And  it's  there  two  tiny  pathways  meet  — 
One  leads  to  —  I  don't  know  where; 

The  other  will  choke  with  meadow-sweet. 
In  the  hot  mid-summer  air. 

But  take  it  now,  and  follow  the  brook. 

As  it  runs  along  the  ridge ; 
You'll  notice  some  cresses  in  a  nook 

Growing  somewhere,  near  the  bridge. 


UI1KUE    T1FK    VIOLETS    GROW-  25 

And  then  come  the1  pussy-willow  trees, 

Where  the  boughs  bend  over  so, 
They  dip  the  water,  then  lift  again. 

Whenever  the  light  winds  blow. 

Farther  on,  the  brook  bends  suddenly, 

With  a  gurgling  mur-m-u-r-r-um, 
As  if  it  were  turning  back  to  see 

Why  the  willows  did  not  come. 

But  the  violets  ?  Where  do  they  grow  ? 

Stop  at  the  bend  of  the  brook, 
Shut  your  eyes  and  take  three  steps  or  so, 

Then  open  them  wide,  and  look. 

There  they  are  —  blue,  yes.  blue  as  the  sky 

When  deepest  in  love  with  June ; 
When  all  nature  sets  her  melody 

To  the  rarest  of  sweet  tune. 

Why,  they  seem  to  make  the  very  air 

A  violet-colored  mist, 
And  you'll  almost  think  as  you  stand  there, 

That  the  earth  and  sky  have  kissed. 

When  I  came  upon  them  in  the  dew, 

I  think  in  my  first  surprise, 
1  thought  that  a  bit  of  heaven's  own  blue 

Had  fallen  before  my  eyes. 

I  found  them  day  before  yesterday. 

When  out  for  a  tramp  —  and  oh. 
It  is  lovely  all  along  the  way  - 

To  where  the  violets  grow. 


26  MY    GUEST. 


MY  GUEST. 

The  day  Is  fixed  that  there  shall  come  to  me 

A  strange  mysterious  guest; 
The  time  I  do  not  know,  he  keeps  the  date. 
So  all  I  have  to  do  Is  work  and  wait. 

And  keep  me  at  my  best. 
And  do  my  common  duties  patiently. 

I've  often  wondered  if  that  day  would  break 

Brighter  than  other  days 

That  I  might  know,  or  wrapped  in  some  strange  gloom, 
And  if  he'd  find  me  waiting  in  my  room, 

Or  busy  with  life's  ways, 
With  tired  hands,  and  weary  eyes  that  ache. 

For  many  years  I've  known  that  he  would  come, 

And  so  have  watched  for  him; 
And  sometimes  even  said  "  He  will  come  soon!'" 
Yet  mornings  pass  followed  by  afternoon, 

With  twilights  dusk  and  dim, 
And  silent  night-times,  when  the  world  is  dumb-. 

But  he  will  come,  and  find  me  here  or  there. 

It  does  not  matter  when. 

For  when  he  comes,  I  know  that  he  will  take 
In  his,  these  very  hands  of  mine  that  ache, 

(They  will  be  idle  then.) 
Just  folded  may  be.  witli  a  silent  prayer. 


MY    GUEST.  27 

Yes,  he  whom  I  expect  has  been  called  Death, 

And  once  he  is  my  guest, 
Nothing  disturbs  of  what  has  been,  or  is; 
I'll  leave  the  world's  loud  company,  for  his, 

As  that  which  seemeth  best, 
And  none  may  hear  the  tender  words  he  saith 

As  we  pass  out,  my  royal  guest  and  I, 

As  noiseless  as  he  came; 
For  naught  will  do-,  but  I  must  go  with  him 
And  leave  the  house  I've  lived  in  closed  and  dim, 

It  only  bears  my  name, 
I've  known  I  should  not  need  it,  by  and  by. 

And  so  I  sleep  and  wake,  I  toil  and  rest, 

Knowing  when  he  shall  come, 
My  Elder  Brother  will  have  sent  for  me, 
Bidding  him  say,  that  they  especially 

Have  need  of  me  at  home, 
And  so,  I  shall  go  gladly  with  my  guest. 


HER    DOMINION.. 


HER   DOMINION 

She  never  sat  upon  a  throne 

With  a  scepter  in  her  hand. 
And  never  to  my  knowledge 

Has  she  owned  a  foot  of  land ; 
But  I've  often  sat  and  watched  her 

Through  the  tidy  window  screen., 
And  I  know  in  her  dominion. 

She's  a  veritable  queen. 

Who  ?  why,  my  little  neighbor 

With  the  gingham  apron  on. 
Or  a  bit  of  fluted  muslin 

When  the  morning's  work  is  done-. 
Yes;  she  rents  a  tidy  cottage 

Right  here  across  the  street, 
Where  she  keeps  the  windows  shining 

And  the  door-yard  fresh  and  neat. 

All  the  walk  is  gaily  bordered 

AVith  petunias  and  phlox. 
And  the  door  is  always  opened 

For  every  one  who  knocks. 
Where,  unless  she  is  preceded 

By  a  little  laughing  elf. 
With  sweet,  unconscious  dignity. 

She  waits  on  the  door  herself. 


IllvR    DOMINION.. 

Her  subjects  ?  why,  her  children, 

Just  as  loyal  as  can  be. 
And  the  way  they  wait  upon  her 

Is  quite  beautiful  to  see: 
While  she  keeps  them  glad  and  happy 

With  the  smile  upon  her  face. 
And  teaches  them  sweet  manners, 

By  her  own  habitual  grace. 

There's  a  handsome,  manly  fellow 

Goes  off  early  in  the  day, 
Ooming  back  again,  as  daylight 

Just  begins  to  fade  away; 
He's  gallant  as  he  is  handsome  — 

Could  a  sovereign  ask  for  more, 
Than  the  homage  which  he  pays  her, 

When  she  meets  him  at  the  door  ? 

"Why,  her  home  is  her  dominion ! 

Home  where  love  is  all  the  law; 
IV here  no  harshly  uttered  mandate 

Her  wee  subjects  over-awe. 
But  I'm  talking  of  my  neighbors, 

I'm  ashamed  as  I  can  be, 
I've  been  peeping  through  my  shutters. 

And  they've  just  sat  do"wn  to  tea. 

I  can  hear  their  cheerful  chatter, 
With  soft  laughter  now  and  then. 

And  I  say,  the  dear  Lord  bless  them. 
Ten  times  over,  and  again: 


For  it  does  me  good  to  watch  them. 
Seems  so  cozy,  and  all  that, 

And  I've  nothing  much  to  :tend  to., 
But  my  knitting  and  my  cat. 


TO   MY   MOTHER. 

My  wish  for  thee,  whose  tireless  love 
Alike  could  chasten  and  approve: 
My  wish  is  that  thy  life  might  be 
As  full  of  joy  as  love  for  me. 

My  hope  for  thee  is  like  a  star 
That  shines  beyond  where  tempests  are-r 
My  hope  for  thee,  first  loved  and  best, 
Is  one  long  day  of  perfect  rest. 

My  prayer  for  thee  who  taught  me  pray/- 
Would swing  the  gates  of  heaven  away. 
Until  the  light  of  heaven  appear 
To  shine  across  thy  pathway  here. 

My  love  for  thee —  could  that  obtain 
A  healing  balsam  for  thy  pain, 
Ah,  then  it  were  already  thine, 
Could  it  be  bought  with  love  of  mine. 


THE    OLD    RED    CRADLE,  31 

THE  OLD   RED  CRADLE. 

Take  me  back  to  the  days  when  the  old  red  cradle  rocked, 

In  the  sunshine  of  the  years  that  are  gone ; 
To  the  good,  old,  trusty  days,  when  the  door  was  never  locked, 

And  we  slumbered  unmolested  till  the  dawn. 

I  remember  of  my  years  I  had  numbered  almost  seven, 

And  the  old  cradle  stood  against  the  wall  — 
I  was  youngest  of  the  five,  and  two  were  gone  to  heaven. 

But  the  old  red  cradle  rocked  us  all. 

And  if  ever  came  a  day  when  my  cheeks  were  flushed  and  hot, 
When  I  did  not  mind  my  porridge  or  my  play, 

I  would  clamber  up  its  side  and  the  pain  would  be  forgot, 
When  the  old  red  cradle  rocked  away. 

It  has  been  a  hallowed  spot  where  I've  turned  through  all  the 
years, 

Which  have  brought  me  the  evil  with  the  good, 
And  I  turn  again  to-night,  aye,  and  see  it  through  my  tears. 

The  place  where  the  dear  old  cradle  stood. 

By  its  side  my  father  paused  with  a  little  time  to  spare, 

And  the  care-lines  would  soften  on  his  brow, 
.Ah!   'twas  but  a  little  while  that  I  knew  a  father's  care, 

But  I  fancy  in  my  dreams  I  see  him  now. 

By  my  mother  it  was  rocked  when  the  evening  meal  was  laid, 

And  again  I  seem  to  see  her  as  she  smiled  — 
When  the  rest  were    all    in    bed,    'twas   there  she  knelt  and 
prayed, 

By  the  old  red  cradle  and  her  child. 


62  AN     <7(  <  ILTATIOV. 

Aye,  it  cradled  one  and  all,  brothers,  sisters  in  it  lay, 
And  it  gave  me  the  sweetest  rest  I've  known. 

But  to-night  the  tears  will  flow,  and  I  let  them  have  their  way. 
For  the  passing  years  are  leaving  me  alone. 

And  it  seems  of  those  to  come,  I  would  gladly  give  them  allr 

For  a  slumber  as  free  from  care  as  then, 
Just  to  wake  to-morrow  morn  where  the  rising  sun  would  fall. 

'Hound  the  old  red  cradle  once  again. 

But  the  cradle  long  has  gone  and  the  burdens  that  it  bore, 

One  by  one  have  been  gathered  to  the  fold, 
Still  the  flock  is  incomplete,  for  it  numbers  only  four, 

With  one  left  out  straying  in  the  cold. 

Heaven  grant  again  we  may  in  each  other's  arms  be  locked. 

Where  no  sad  tears  of  parting  ever  fall : 
God  forbid  that  one.be  lost,  that  the  old  red  cradle  rocked; 

And  the  dear  old  cradle  rocked  us  all. 

[Copyright  1  **•">,  by  Charles  D.  Blake  &  Co.] 

AN   OCCULTATION. 

So  many  times.  I've  seen  the  great  round  moon. 
Creep  slowly  from  behind  yon  old  mill-roof, 
And  with  a  kindly  face  look  in  at  me. 
Still  bending  o'er  my  uncompleted  task, 
And  then,  with  tender  grace  withdraw  herself. 
To  climb  again  the  stairway  of  the  heavens, 
I'p  to  her  chamber,  all  alight  with  stars. 
And  hung  with  white  cloud-draperies  to  hide 
A  little  of  her  loveliness. 


AX    OCCULTATIOX.  33 

One  night, 

'Twas  when  the  moon  was  new,  and  in  the  west 
Hung  high  a  crescent  beautiful,  I  saw 
Aldebaran  draw  near,  and  seem,  to  pause 
Upon  the  shadowed  disc,  then  slip  from  sight 
Between  the  shining  points,  as  if  to  hide 
Him  from  the  twin  stars  of  the  Hyades. 
(Instinctively  I  laid  a  finger  on 
My  lips,  a-hush  —  and  simultaneously 
The  charmed  night  held  itself  so  still,  1  heard 
An  old  Pine  drop  a  needle  on  the  ground,) 
And  soon,  I  saw  him  peep  from  underneath 
The  shining  rim,  and  take  his  place  again, 
And  then  right  merrily  go  down  the  west, 
To  put  the  little  stars  to  bed. 

Wise  men, 

Who  know  the  names,  and  courses  of  the  stars, 
As  I  know  names,  and  blooming  times  of  flow'rs, 
Called  what  I  saw  an  occupation,  else 
I  might  have  thought  it  just  a  good-night  game 
Of  peek-a-boo,  played  by  that  merry  group 
Of  Hyades. 


THE  MASSACRE  OF  THE 


THE  MASSACRE  OF  THE  ROSES. 

The  Lady  Rose  and  her  family, 

In  the  early  part  of  June, 
Had  planned  for  a  grand  rose  festival. 

To  be  held  the  next  full  moon. 

The  Lady  Rose,  of  her  family 

Was  as  proud  as  proud  could  be ; 
"  Some  shall  wear  yellow,  and  some  wear  red, 

And  some  shall  wear  white,"  said  she. 

"  And  some  shall  be  dressed  in  full  pink  skirts. 

Some  in  salmon's  palest  hue, 
And  some  in  crimson,  and  each  shall  wear 

A  real  pearl-o'-the-dew." 

With  their  lovely  costumes  partly  on, 

They  chatted,  as  roses  will, 
And  the  moon  was  half  way  up  the  sky, 

When  they  set  the  last  wee  frill. 

'First,  the  Lady  Rose  herself  stepped  out, 

Leaning  lightly  on  the  wind, 
Then  the  half-blown  belles,  and  timid  buds. 

Came  in  trios  close  behind. 

The  place  belonged  to  Miss  Marguerite, 
She  had  fenced  and  hedged  it  well, 

And  just  where  that  bold  Jack  Frost  came  in, 
Why,  no  one  could  ever  tell. 


FRAGMENTS.  35 

But  right  in  the  midst  of  the  festival. 

They  all  felt  his  icy  breath, 
And  the  Lady  Rose  and  her  family 

Were  frightened  almost  to  death. 

They  gathered  their  dainty  flounces  up, 

And  prepared  to  run  away, 
But  in  icy  tones  that  froze  their  hearts. 

He  commanded  them  to  stay. 

The  timid  buds  in  their  green  slashed  coats. 

He  pinched  them  till  they  were  black, 
And  if  any  did  make  their  escape, , 

They  have  never  dared  come  back. 

Well,  Miss  Marguerite  walked  out  next  day. 

Yes;  and  afterwards  she  said 
That  every  rose  at  the  festival, 

Was  black  in  the  face  and  —  dead. 


FRAGMENTS. 

A  broken  song —  It  had  dropped  apart 
Just  as  it  left  the  singer's  heart. 
And  was  never  whispered  upon  the  air, 
Only  breathed  into  the  vague  "  Somewhere  ' 

A  broken  prayer  —  Only  half  said 
By  a  tired  child  at  his  trundle  bed; 
While  asking  Jesus  his  soul  to  keep. 
With  parted  lips,  he  fell  fast  asleep. 


30  THE    AGED    OM>. 

A  broken  life  —  Hardly  half  told 
When  it  dropped  the  burden  it  could  not  hold  — 
Of  these  lives,  and  songs,  and  prayers  half  done. 
God  gathers  the  fragments  every  one. 


THE  AGED  ONES. 

Make  the  way  smooth  for  the  aged  feet: 

The  path  has  been  hard  they've  had  to  tread. 

And  they  shrink  from  what  they  yet  may  meet. 
For  the  way  looks  dark  that  lies  ahead. 

Make  the  work  light  for  the  feeble  hands, 
Once  they  were  fair  and  soft  as  your  own; 

But  with  patiently  welding  Love's  strong  bands. 
Into  the  hands  hard  seams  have  grown. 

Soften  the  light  for  the  aching  eyes, 

Grown  tired,  perhaps,  in  their  watch  o'er  you, 
_  While  tenderly  hushing  with  luli-a-bys, 

Through  silent  hours  when  you  never  knew. 

Make  the  weight  light  for  the  weary  arm, 
'Tis  tired,  with  many  a  day's  work  done; 

With  passing  so  often  'twixt  you  and  harm, 
Let  it  "  lean  hard  "  on  your  stronger  one. 

Smooth  the  hair  tenderly  off  the  brow, 
Something  has  left  deep  furrows  there; 

The  mother's  care  you  would  so  miss  now, 
Has  cut  those  lines,  and  blanched  the  hair. 


THE    LOST    JEWELS.  37 

And  kiss  sometimes  the  quivering  lips, 
Thousands  of  times  have  they  kissed  you. 

Saying,  4i  No  nectar  the  bee  e'er  sips, 
Is  sweeter  from  flower-bells  filled  with  dew." 

The  ear  has  grown  dull  with  each  passing  year, 
And  the  voice  grows  weak  it  feels  and  owns, 

But  once,  'twas  only  a  mother's  ear 
Could  tell  the  language  of  baby-tones. 

Make  the  heart  glad  by  your  thoughtful  care, 
Long  has  it  thought  and  planned  for  you, 

Beating  with  many  a  silent  prayer, 
And  self-denial  you  never  knew. 

Make  the  bed  soft  for  the  tired  frame 

Just  a  few  more  times,  —  a  very  few,  — 
Shade  the  winds  from  the  flickering  flame 

Till  the  thread  of  life  shall  have  burned  in  two. 


THE   LOST  JEWELS. 

"  Have  you  seen  or  heard  of  my  jewels  ? 

Came  you  by  the  meadow  path, 
Where  I  challenged  the  merry  maiden 

With  handfuls  of  aftermath  ? 
Saw  you  aught  that  shone  in  the  grasses 

With  a  rarely  lustrous  hue  ?  " 

ic  We  came  by  the  path  thro'  the  meadow, 
And  saw  but  the  morning  dew.  " 


TIN:   I.O.-T  .IK \\KI.S. 

"  Came  you  round  thro?  the  daisy  acre, 

And  over  the  wild  rose  stile, 
Where  Flora  sat  resting  her  basket. 

And  chatting  with  me  the  while  ? 
Saw  you  aught  that  lay  in  the  pathway, 

That  shone  with  a  pearly  gleam  ?  " 

'•  Aye,  we  crossed  the  stile  just  after  you. 
And  saw  but  a  stray  sunbeam." 

"  Did  you  pass  by  the  clump  of  alders, 
Where  the  shade  lay  dark  and  cool  ? 

(I  was  there  when  the  village  children 
Passed  by  on  their  way  to  school.) 

Saw  you  in  the  shade  of  the  alders 

That  which  might  have  been  my  gems  ?  " 

"Nay;  we  saw  but  the  purple  berries 
That  hung  on  their  wine-red  stems." 

"  But  has  no  one  found  them  —  my  treasures, 
My  fair  pearls  so  lustrous  white  ? 

They  were  lost  somewhere  in  the  morning, 
And  now  it  is  almost  night. 

Surely,  some  one  can  find  my  jewels, 
Or  their  like,  in  some  fair  clime." 

"  Xay;  for  the  gems  you  lost  this  morning, 
Were  the  precious  pearls  of  time." 


THE    BOOK    WITH    THE    (^I'AINT    RED    I.EATI1KII    CO  V  EJJS. 


THE  BOOK  WITH  THE  QUAINT  RED   LEATHER  COVERS. 

The  old  kitchen  of  my  childhood, 

With  its  fire-place  and  its  delf, 
Was  made  hallowed  by  the  presence 

Of  the  Book  upon  the  shelf, 
Where  for  years  its  quaint  old  covers 

Caught  the  firelight's  ruddy  flame, 
For  the  Book  and  "  old  red  cradle  " 

Were  there  long  before  I  came. 

It  has  shared  a  place  beside  me 

In  many  a  childish  nap, 
For  my  mother  used  to  rock  me 

With  it  resting  on  her  lap ; 
And  e'en  now,  through  years  of  changes, 

Tender  memories  are  stirred 
By  the  rocking  of  a  cradle 

Or  the  reading  of  the  Word. 

When  its  weight  was  quite  too  heavy 

For  my  hands  to  hold  with  care, 
It  was  opened  out  before  me, 

On  a  low-backed  wooden  chair; 
While  I  read  of  Paul  and  Silas, 

With  their  feet  fast  in  the  stocks  — 
Spelled  the  words,  demurely  seated 

On  an  old  cracked  candle  box. 


40  TWO    KOOMS. 

I've  a  picture  of  my  mother, 

(I  can  close  my  eyes  and  see) 
Bending  o'er  those  sacred  pages, 

With  us  all  about  her  knee, 
And  we  never  missed  her  blessing 

When  the  evening  prayers  were  said, 
And  she  closed  the  leather  covers, 

While  she  tucked  us  up  in  bed. 

There's  no  cradle  gently  rocking 

On  the  old  home  kitchen  floor, 
And  no  children  just  at  night-fall. 

Press  in  thro'  the  open  door; 
But  the  dear  old  family  Bible, 

Teaching  its  eternal  truth. 
Is  the  one  unchanged  possession. 

Which  outlives  a  vanished  youth. 


TWO   ROOMS. 

A  beautiful  room  with  tinted  walls: 
A  bust  where  the  colored  sunlight  falls, 
A  lace-hung  bed  with  a  satin  fold, 
A  lovely  room,  all  blue  and  gold  — 
And  weariness. 

A  quaint  old  room  with  rafters  bare: 
A  low  white  bed,  a  rocking-chair, 
A  book,  a  stalk  where  a  flower  had  been. 
An  open  door,  and  all  within 
Peace  and  content. 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  LEAVES.  41 


THE   DEATH   OF  THE   LEAVES. 

Wet,  wet,  wet,  lie  the  leaves  ! 

Loose  from  the  boughs  where  they  burned  and  blushed, 

Now  they  are  lying  all  limp  and  crushed, 

Their  mellow  music  is  drowned  and  hushed 

In  the  great  down-pour  of  the  autumn  rain,  * 

I  watched  them  yesterday  thro'  the  lane 

Drifting,  dallying,  dallying,  drifting, 

Resting,  rallying,  lighting,  lifting  — 

Over  the  hill  and  clown  the  hollow, 

Kustling  gaily,  "  Who'll  come  and  follow  ? 

We  are  going  to  find  the  swallow!  " 

The  north  wind  started  them  on  the  track, 

In  a  giddy  whirl  they  came  rushing  back, 

Hither  and  thither  the  wild  wind's  game. 

So  all  the  day  long  they  went  and  came; 

Spreading  like  beautiful  bits  of  flame 

Along  the  roadside,  and  through  the  lane  — 
Quenched  to-night  by  a  whole  day's  rain  — 
Drenched  thro'  each  fibre  and  fine-drawn  vein. 

For  death  in  Nature  the  great  sky  grieves, 

And  rains  its  tears  on  the  fallen  leaves. 
Wet,  wet,  wet,  lie  the  leaves  ! 


THE    DEATH    OF    T1IK    LEAVES, 

Dead,  dead,  dead,  lie  the  leaves  ! 
Some,  caught  on  hedges,  hang  torn  and  brown  ~ 
Some  lie  in  by-ways,  some  in  the  town. 
Wherever  the  great  rain  beat  them  down. 
Pressing  on  pavements  their  delicate  prints. 
Lighting  the  gutter  with  pale  yellow  tints  — 
Yesterday,  falling,  fluttering,  flying. 
To-night  they  are  lying  still,  and  dying  — 
Huddled  in  heaps  'round  the  tree-trunks,  dead. 
While  great  bare  branches  stretch  overhead. 
And  seem  to  whisper,  as  if  they  said. 

*'  Let  the  gray  sky  weep,  a  tree  ne'er  grieves, 
Sighing  all  winter  for  its  lost  leaves  ! 
We  push  them  off  as  the  year  grows  old. 
And  our  roots  strike  deeper  for  frost  and  cold, 
While  the  dead  leaves  mix  with  the  mother-mould.. 
And  a  strange  new  impulse  thrills  us  through. 
Till  Nature  revives  and  skies  are  blue. 
And  the  old  leaves  live  again  in  the  new  !  " 
TTis  a  beautiful  truth  the  old  tree  weaves 
From  its  fallen  garland  of  faded  leaves. 
Dead.  dead,  dead,  lie  the  leaves  I 


A    PART    IN    THE    PLAX,  43 


A   PART   IN   THE   PLAN, 

'Because  my  life  is  what  it  is, 

Shall  I  despair, 
And  offer  up  bitter  complaints 

Instead  of  prayer  ? 
Because  my  life  is  what  it  is, 

I  may  instead 
Be  drawn  the  closer  unto  God, 

And  comfortted; 

And  the  comfort  wherewith  He  comforteth, 
Makes  precious  every  need, 

And  life  as  it  is.  if  He  wants  it  so, 
Is  precious  to  me  indeed. 

Because  my  life  is  what  it  is, 

Heav'n  seems  more  sweet, 
And  ev'ry  joy  that  finds  me  out, 

I  rise  to  meet 
With  keen  surprise,  because  my  life 

Is  what  it  is, 
The  least  in  that  stupendous  plan 

Of  Deity's. 

For  my  part  in  the  plan  is  but  weakness, 
My  place  in  the  structure  small  — 

But  what  a  thing  for  a  worm  of  the  dust 
To  be  in  the  plan  at  all ! 


44  WHAT   IS    THE   WONDEB? 


WHAT   IS  THE  WONDER? 

No  wonder  the  birds  are  so  happy! 

No  wonder  they  feel  so  gay : 
And  so  should  we,  if  we  lived  in  a  tree. 

Under  cool,  green  leaves  all  day. 

What  wonder  they  wake  up  so  early. 

And  carol  so  loud  and  sweet  ? 
So  might  we,  too,  if  we'd  nothing  to  da 

But  sit  and  sing  for  our  meat. 

Why  wouldn't  the  spiders  like  to  spin 

Fine  webs  on  the  garden  floors  ? 
We  should  like  to  spin,  too.  if  we  might  do- 

All  our  spinning  out  of  doors. 

The  bees  hard  at  work  in  the  clover  ? 

H'm,  they're  only  after  treats  ! 
"  So  busy/'  you  say,  "  all  the  livelong  day  ?  'r 

Yes,  but  they  just  live  on  s~weets  I 

Oh,  well  may  the  ferns  look  fair  and  fine, 

In  delicate  green  arrayed ; 
They've  had  naught  to  do,  ever  since  they  grew 

But  fan  themselves  iu  the  shade. 


WHAT    IS    THE    WONDER?  45 

No  wonder  the  daisies  stand  so  straight. 

All  holding  their  heads  just  so; 
All  day  in  the  air,  with  no  thought  or  care, 

And  nothing  to  do  but  grow. 

No  wonder  the  runnels  laugh  so  loud. 

As  they  dance  along  the  way; 
So  should  we,  too,  if  we'd  nothing  to  do, 

But  run  through  the  fields  all  day. 

The  giddy  winds  go  a-gossiping, 

Always  telling  all  they  know, 
Then  likely  enough,  go  off  in  a  huff  — 

All  they  ever  do  is  —  blow  \ 

No  wonder  —  ho,  ho,  just  stop  a  bit  ! 

Xo  wonder  you  think,  do  you, 
That  the  birds  and  bees  and  flowers  and  trees 

Should  do  what  they  have  to  do  ? 

But  I  think  we'll  leave  the  wonder  now 

For  the  winds  to  tell  the  flowers; 
They  all  do  their  best,  with  a  happy  zest  — 

Oome,  let  us  be  doing  ours! 


46  KI->TIN(,     TV    THi;     (H,I>     ARM     ('HAIK_ 


RESTING    IN   THE  OLD   ARM   CHAIR, 

There  is  someone  here  in  my  home  to-night. 

Thank  the  good  Father  above. 
Whose  hair  is  now  threaded  all  thro'  with  white.. 

Someone  to  cherish  and  love; 
Her  tender  care  I  have  never  yet  missed. 

No :  not  for  a  day  —  a  day 
Since  the  hour  my  infant  brow  she  kissed, 

Long  before  her  hair  was  gray. 

Resting,  resting,  so  weary  is  she. 

She  with  the  soft  white  hair, 
Long  years  ago.  she  used  to  rock  me. 

Now,  she  rests  in  the  old  arm  chair. 

TTis  the  mother  about  whose  side  we  flocked. 

When  the  night  was  drawing  nigh. 
In  the  home  where  the  cradle  gently  rocked. 

To  her  tender  Lull-a-by ; 
It  was  there,  she  told  of  a  home  in  heav'n. 

There,  she  taught  us  of  the  way. 
And  prayed  that  the  children  God  had  given; 

Might  never  be  led  astray. 


47 


When  the  others  went  to  the  wi  Upper  Fold,'' 

Long  she  grieved  and  sorrowed  sore, 
And  now,  holding  her  dear  as  heart  can  hold 

1  love  for  the  other  four; 
There  are  lovelier  homes  than  mine,  to-day 

Whose  pleasures  I  envy  not. 
Where  an  old  arm  chair  has  been  set  away. 

Xow  vacant  —  perhaps  forgot. 

A  mother  sits  here  in  my  home  to-night, 

/Thank  the  good  Father  above, 
A  mother,  whose  hair  is  fast  growing  white, 

Is  mine,  to  cherish  and  love  — 
Some  count  out  their  wealth  in  silver  and  gold. 

And  guard  it  with  jealous  care. 
I'm  richer  than  they,  and  yet  all  I  hold 

Rests  here,  in  the  old  arm  chair. 

Kesting,  resting,  so  weary  is  she, 

She  with  the  soft  white  hair, 
Long  years  ago,  she  used  to  rock  me, 

Now,  she  rests  in  the  old  arm  chair, 


48  THE    SAINTS* 


THE  SAINTS'   MESSENGER. 

If  I  knew  it  now,  how  strange  it  would  seem? 

To  think,  to  know,  ere  another  day 

I  should  have  passed  over  the  silent  way.. 
And  my  present  life  become  as  a  dream ; 

But  what  if  that  step  should  usher  me 
Right  into  the  sinless  company 

Of  the  saints  in  heaven. 

I'll  carefully  watch  the  door  of  my  lips 
As  I  talk  with  my  comrades  to-day, 
And  think  a  little  before  I  say, 

To  see  that  no  careless  expression  slips, 
Which  I  should  find  would  so  ill  compare 
With  the  holy  converse  uttered  there, 
By  the  saints  in  heaven. 

If  they  let  me  in  —  oh,  how  sweet,  how  strange-* 
The  thought,  that  before  a  new  day  dawn, 
I  may  put  the  incorruptible  on. 

That  beautiful  garment,  the  robe  of  change  ! 
And  walk  and  talk  with  that  happy  throng, 
Perhaps  join  my  voice  in  the  "  new.  new  song,' 
With  the  saints  in  heaven. 


A    CRADLK    SONG.  49 

But  I  fear  lest  I  should  be  poorly  meet 

To  mingle  much  with  the  saints  at  all; 

My  earthly  service  would  seem  so  small  — 
Just  going  of  errands  on  tired  feet; 

But  oh,  how  blest,  if  it  were  my  share 

To  be  the  trusted  messenger  there, 
For  the  saints  in  heaven  ! 

With  holy  missives  to  take  and  bring, 
Sometime,  perhaps,  it  would  come  to  be,. 
That  some  pure  saint  would  commission  me 

To  carry  his  message  straight  to  the  King: 
And  the  King  his  answer  would  defer, 
To  turn  and  smile  on  the  messenger 
Of  his  saints  in  heaven  ! 


A  CRADLE  SONG. 

Karest  and  fairest,  sweetest  and  best, 
1  have  a  song-bird  in  a  white  nest; 
The  songs  he  sings,  on  bright  little  wings 
Nestle  down  in  my  heart  to  rest. 

Fairest  and  rarest;  not  to  be  sold; 
The  dearest  darling  a  nest  could  hold: 
Peek-a-bo-peep,  and  then  go  to  sleep  — 
Some  little  birds  are  out  in  the  cold. 

Karest  and  fairest  —  sleepiest  too  — 

My  little  song-bird  has  eyes  of  blue: 

Sleep-ee-to-sleep,  and  no  more  bo-peep, 

Till  he  awakes  when  other  birds  do. 


50 


KEPT. 

Though  beset  and  tempted  by  foes  without, 
And  tortured  within  by  dark  fears  and  doubt  — 
Oft  perplexed  and  troubled  and  tossed  about, 
Yet  kept ! 

Though  hindered  or  helped,  relieved  or  tried. 
To-day  permitted,  to-morrow  denied, 
Yet  by  the  strong  Presence  I  walk  beside 
Still  kept ! 

When  my  feet  down  flowery  paths  would  stray, 
That  would  lead  far  off  from  the  King's  highway. 
Back  to  the  rugged  path  day  after  day 
I'm  kept. 

Through  the  narrow  defiles  one  treads  alone, 
When  the  lips  are  mute,  while  the  heart  makes  moan. 
And  the  way  leads  onward,  untried,  unknown. 
I'm  kept. 

Down  dim  lonely  valleys,  up  rocky  steeps, 
Where  the  thunders  roll,  and  the  tempest  sweeps. 
Still  ever  by  Him  who  calms  and  keeps 
I'm  kept. 


51 


When  the  way  seemed  blocked  by  a  solid  wall, 
And  my  feet  stood  still  and  my  hands  let  fall, 
My  soul  through  the  darkness  that  shuts  out  all 
Was  kept. 

And  then,  when  I  wrestled  in  wild  despair, 
And  so  blindly  beat  at  the  barrier, 
Still  the  poor  soul  that  only  moaned  for  prayer, 
Was  kept. 

In  the  waiting-time  when  all  strength  was  spent, 
And  with  folded  hands  the  days  came  and  went, 
Ah!  then  I  learned  what  these  two  words  meant  — 
t;  Just  kept." 

I  am  learning  slowly,  and  oh,-  'tis  sweet 
To  rise  again  on  my  rested  feet, 
And  so  toil  on  singing  in  glad  repeat, 
"  I'm  kept  !  " 

Would  I  know  all  the  way  marked  out  for  me, 
As  it  winds  away  to  the  great  gray  sea  ? 
Xo,  oh,  no  !  It  is  better  far  to  be 
So  kept. 

Just  to  know  each  day  I  am  being  led, 
Only  trusting  the  way  that  lies  ahead, 
Quite  content  with  knowing  each  step  I  tread 
Is  kept. 

'  And  when  I  come  down  to  life's  farther  strand. 
When  the  first  wave  reaches  me  where  I  stand, 
I  shall  then  in  the  hollow  of  His  hand 
Be  kept ! 


.V2  TO    A    CACTUS    BLOOM. 


TO  A  CACTUS   BLOOM. 

Ye  beauteous  flower,  marvellous  hued, 
With  what  wonderful  light  art  thou  imbued  ? 
Has  an  angel's  breath,  in  a  world  of  sin, 
Stolen  through  thy  petals  to  hide  within  :' 
That  thy  crimson  chalice  is  all  aglow 
With  a  light  unknown  to  this  world  below  ? 
What  is  the  sweet  secret  within  thee  sealed. 
Which  for  man's  entreaty  thou  wilt  not  yield  ? 
Some  beautiful  hint  thou  art.  God-given, 
To  bloom  on  earth,  with  a  tint  of  heaven, 
Just  caught  from  its  pillars  of  amethyst. 
To  veil  thy  heart  in  a  violet  mist, 
Lest  the  curious  gaze  of  sinful  men 
Should  fright  thee  back  to  thy  heaven  again. 


AN   OLD  TREE'S   SOLILOQUY. 

I'm  very  cold;  my  boughs  are  almost  bare: 

For  wind-sprites,  busy  in  the  autumn  air. 

Are  stripping  Off  my  leaves;  they  grudge  to  spare 

Even  a  few  to  nestle  at  my  feet; 
The  birds  that  sang  all  thro'  the  summer  time 
Desert  me  now,  to  seek  a  sunnier  clime. 
Leaving  me  here  alone,  to  meet  the  rime 

And  feel  the  sting  of  wintry  wind,  and  sleet. 


AN  OLD  TREE'S  SOLILOQUY.  5; 

I'm  very  old;  fast  yielding  to  decay  ! 
My  topmost  bough  has  fallen  quite  away, 
A  poor  old  broken  tree  that's  had  its  day, 

I  only  stand  here  waiting  for  the  end. 
Alone  —  apart  from  other  trees  I've  stood, 
Denied  the  social  joys  of  brotherhood, 
Felt  in  the  closer  contact  of  the  wood, 

Where  trees  converse  together,  friend  with  friend. 

My  last  pale  leaf  goes  drifting  down  the  stream 
Upon  whose  bank  I  stand,  as  in  a  dream, 
And  wonder  how  the  cold  dark  waters  seem, 

And  if  my  little  leaflet  is  afraid  — 
Strange  premonitions  haunt  me  like  a  pain; 
The  impulse  that  has  thrilled  in  every  vein 
Is  still ;  it  means  I  shall  not  leaf  again, 

Xo  more  will  happy  children  seek  my  shade  ! 

The  little  ones  that  used  to  come  and  play 

Have  changed,  grown  old,  and  some,  infirm  and  gray, 

Leaned  on  their  staves  awhile,  and  went  away, 

So  far  away,  they  will  not.  come  again. 
In  my  cool  shade  one  often  used  to  rest, 
Who  seemed  to  bear  some  sorrow  on  her  breast, 
She  always  turned  her  sad  face  to  the  west, 

As  if  there  was  the  solace  for  her  pain. 

But  that  was  long  ago  by  some  decades  of  years ; 
I've  always  hoped  her  faith  outlived  her  fears, 
That  some  sweet  joy  came  to  dry  her  tears, 
When  sorrow's  tender  mission  was  fulfilled; 


")4  AN  OLD  TREE'S  soui.o^ry. 

Since  then,  how  many  seasons  have  gone  l>y. 
Trailing  their  "changes  over  earth  and  sky; 
How  many  mortals  have  been  born  to  die, 

How  many  sweet  bird-voices  have  been  stilled  ! 

The  last  lone  nest  that  clung  so  close  to  me. 
The  wind  has  fretted  till  it's  almost  free, 
And  by  a  single  straw  hangs  helplessly  — 

'Tis  well  its  little  tenants  are  away! 
When  they  come  back,  and  find  the  old  tree  gone. 
Think  you  they'll  miss  the  bough  they  built  upon: 
Or  on  some  younger  tree,  sing  to  the  dawn 

As  gay  a  carol,  as  they  sang  last  May  ? 

They  do  not  know,  the  pretty,  nighty  things, 
That  come  and  go  at  pleasure  on  swift  wings, 
How  the  fixed  nature  of  an  old  tree  clings 

To  those  it  keeps,  a  little  while  a  year. 
I  loved  them  so  !    'Tis  hard  to  yield  them  all, 
The  robin's  song;  the  early  bluebird's  call  — 
Even  the  squirrel's  chatter,  in  the  fall. 

Has  always  been  a  pleasant  sound  to  hear. 

How  black  the  sky  looks  there  above  the  hill 
In  the  northwest;  the  air  is  strangely  still: 
I  feel  a  strong  presentiment  of  coming  ill  — 

I  wish  I'd  been  a  straighter.  better  tree  ! 
And  yet,  what  has  a  poor  old  tree  to  dread  ? 
Why  lives  the  trunk,  after  its  top  is  dead  :J 
My  last  green  leaf  has  budded,  and  been  shed. 

I  can  but  fall,  what  more  can  happen  me  ? 


TO    MY    COMRADES.  55 

I'd  choose  to  fall  unnoticed,  in  the  dark, 
Before  the  cruel  axe  has  rent  my  bark. 
Leaving  a  pile  of  whitened  chips,  (to  mark 

Where  once  I  stood)  their  own  sad  tale  to  tell. 
A  mighty  shivering  has  seized  my  form; 
I  feel  too  weak  to  meet  this  rising  storm, 
I  wonder  if  I  ever  shall  — 

[Even  as  it  spoke,  the  old  tree  groaned  —  and  fell.] 


TO  MY  COMRADES. 

Oh,  what  shall  I  say  to  you  comrades,  mates; 

To  you  with  familiar  faces, 
Who  have  joined  with  mine,  your  lives  and  fates, 

In  the  old  accustomed  places. 

We  have  shared  in  common  our  hopes  and  fears, 
And  mingled  our  joys  and  sorrows; 

Have  bidden  each  other  "  good-nights  "  for  years, 
And  "good-mornings  "  on  the  morrows. 

To  some  we  have  said  "good-by,"  and  for  aye; 

They  are  gone  past  all  returning  — 
While  others  have  married  and  gone  away, 

Xew  ways,  and  duties  learning. 

Sometimes  we  have  seen  our  work  thro'  tears. 

And  upon  each  other's  faces, 
We  have  read  the  record  of  weary  years, 

Such  as  death  alone  erases. 


56 


Then  again,  we  have  shaken  hands  with  fate, 

And  grown  happy  in  our  striving, 
Till  we've  equaled  perhaps,  the  learned  and  great, 

In  the  joy  of  real  living. 

We  have  seen  the  growth  in  each  other's  souls, 

Of  worthy  and  true  ambitions ; 
And  with  eyes  still  fixed  upon  distant  goals, 

Have  fulfilled  our  humble  missions. 

We  have  kept  thro'  the  busy  mill's  turmoil. 

Our  several  likes  and  leanings, 
And  have  drawn  from  our  lives  of  earnest  toil, 

Many  sweet  and  precious  meanings. 

You  have  all  had  your  cherished  hopes  and  plans 

Laid  away  in  hidden  niches, 
And  I  —  O,  comrades  —  under  bans, 

I'll  own  up  to  skipping  stitches. 

And  here  are  a  few,  if  you  care  to  take 
Sometime  when  you  have  the  leisure; 

I  can  only  wish  I  had  power  to  make 
The  "stitches"  afford  you  pleasure. 

But  here  is  my  hand  to  you,  comrades,  mates, 
And  since  toil  is  our  common  creed, 

I  shall  hope  to  meet  you  beyond  the  gates. 
And  I  wish  you  all  "  Good-speed  "  ! 


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